Lord Jenga was well pleased, though. He had faced down a numerically superior enemy and not just prevailed, he had triumphed. The Defenders were in a buoyant mood. The Kariens were decimated, the Fardohnyan contingent destroyed. Of course, the Kariens still had countless men to throw at them, but they might think twice before launching such a suicidal frontal assault again.
Damin suspected the reason for the victory lay as much with the coercion laid on the enemy by their own priests, as with the brilliance of the Medalonian defence. Even when the odds were hopeless, the Kariens did not have the wits about them to retreat. All they could do was keep moving forward into the arms of certain death.
“My Lord.”
Damin turned to his captain wearily. He had not slept in two days and it was starting to tell on him. “What is it, Almodavar?”
“Lord Jenga wishes to see you. There’s some disagreement over your orders regarding the Fardohnyans.”
Damin nodded, not surprised by the news. He turned his mount and rode toward the command pavilion at a canter. The sooner this was sorted out, the better.
“Lord Wolfblade, is it true you ordered the Fardohnyans buried?” Jenga demanded as soon as he appeared in the entrance. The tent was crowded with Defenders, most of them congratulating themselves over their victory.
“I did. They are pagans, my Lord. It is sacrilege for them to be cremated. You may do as you wish with the Kariens, but the Fardohnyans deserve better.”
“They fought with the Kariens,” Jenga retorted. “They deserve nothing. In any case, I’ve not the men or the time to spare burying anyone. I’ll have an epidemic on my hands if that field isn’t cleared soon.”
“Then my men will bury them, my Lord. And I’ve no doubt there are plenty of pagans in your camp who would aid us.”
Jenga snorted something unintelligible and turned to an officer seeking his signature. He signed the document before turning back to Damin.
“Very well, bury them if you must. I’ve broken enough laws lately for another to mean little. But do it away from here. And don’t use my Defenders. Not that there are many who would countenance such a barbaric practice.”
“Your respect for our religious customs is touching, my Lord.”
Jenga frowned but did not reply. Annoyed, Damin strode from the tent. His men had fought as long and hard as the Defenders. They would not be pleased with an order to bury nearly five hundred Fardohnyans in this cold, hard ground.
“Damin!”
He stopped and waited as R’shiel caught up to him, surprised to find her here. He had expected her and Brak to be long gone. “I heard what you said to Lord Jenga. You did the right thing.”
“Then perhaps you could persuade him to lend me some assistance.”
“I doubt it. Burial is outlawed in Medalon, Damin. You’re lucky he agreed at all.”
“I know. But sometimes I wonder about this alliance. I have more in common with the Fardohnyans and the Kariens than I do with these people. Were it not for the gods...”
“Were it not for the gods, none of us would be in this mess,” she finished with a frown.
Not sure what she meant, Damin shrugged. “You would know better than I, demon child.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“I’m sorry. Although I’m a little surprised to see you here. I understood you were leaving for the Citadel.”
“I’m looking for Tarja to say goodbye. Brak and I are leaving this morning.”
“With Garet Warner?”
She nodded. “You don’t like him much, do you?”
“Not in the least. Nor do I trust him. Be careful, R’shiel.”
She slipped her arm through his companionably and walked with him. Damin found her easy familiarity disconcerting. This girl was a living legend; the embodiment of a myth he had grown up with. He had never expected to find himself counted among the demon child’s friends. When they reached his horse R’shiel let go of his arm and patted the stallion fondly.
“What’s he thinking?” Damin asked curiously.
“He’s thinking it’s too cold to be standing around gossiping. He wants his breakfast.”
“So do I.”
She looked at him with a shake of her head. “How can you even think of food, at a time like this?”
“Armies fight on their stomachs, R’shiel. Starving myself won’t bring anybody back to life.”
“I feel sick just thinking about it.”
Before he could answer her a Defender lieutenant approached them, saluting Damin smartly before turning to R’shiel. His uniform was grubby and soot-stained from a night collecting and burning the dead.
“Captain Tenragan said to ask you to wait for him, my Lady. He’ll be along once he’s taken care of the last of the looters.”
“He’s wasting his time,” Damin remarked. “Looters and war go together like sand and sea.”
The young lieutenant drew himself up and glared at him. “I understand it’s a common practice in Hythria, my Lord. Even your court’esa aren’t above it. In Medalon, however, such a practice is considered to be barbaric and disrespectful.”
“This from a man who burns his dead,” Damin muttered, then he glanced at the young man curiously. “What makes you say my court’esa aren’t above it? There are no court’esa here.”
“Perhaps they belong to one of your men, sir, but I stopped two of them last night. Laden down with bundles of loot they were. All dressed up too, with those jewelled collars and dresses that left nothing to the imagination.”
“No man of mine could afford court’esa like that. Are you certain?”
“Aye. I spent time on the southern border. I’ve seen them before. There was no mistaking them.”
R’shiel looked at him expectantly as he pondered the news. “What’s the matter?”
“Probably nothing. Did you get their names, Lieutenant? Where they were from?”
The man thought for a moment. “One was called Tam-something, I think. The other one said her name was Madina, or something like that. I didn’t really take much notice of them once they moved on...”
“Which way were they headed?”
“South, with everyone else, I suppose.”
“Of course. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
He saluted again and headed toward the command pavilion.
“What’s bothering you, Damin?” R’shiel asked with a faint smile. “That there were Hythrun court’esa looting the battlefield, or that you don’t own them?”
“I just seems a bit strange, that’s all. Court’esa as valuable as that don’t roam battlefields unescorted.”
“What’s all this about court’esa?” Tarja remarked as he walked up beside R’shiel. His eyes were bloodshot, no doubt from supervising the funeral pyres through the night, and his shoulders were slumped with fatigue. Damin wondered for a moment if he looked as haggard.
“One of your men stopped two court’esa looting the battlefield last night. Hythrun court’esa, complete with court collars, he claims.”
“You didn’t bring any court’esa to the front, did you?” Tarja asked.
“No.” He shrugged. “It’s probably just your men confusing some whores from the followers’ camp. Besides,” he added with a laugh. “What self-respecting court’esa would call herself Madina? They usually give themselves far more exotic names.”